


hold on to your heart baby

by Honora



Category: Marvel (Comics), Young Avengers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Roller Derby, F/F, Fluff, Roller Derby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-18 00:30:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2328659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honora/pseuds/Honora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Kate first joined the Sharp Shooters, she was after cute uniforms, hitting people and winning.<br/> <br/>She’s not sure whether to classify America Chavez as an obstacle to that or a fourth goal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold on to your heart baby

**Author's Note:**

> I saw Whip It for the first time and... yeah. This is the result. Only mature to be on the safe side, really. Also, I don't know anything about the sport except what I learned from the internet, so my apologies for any mistakes.  
> To [ queenphoria](http://queenphoria.tumblr.com/) for putting up with me all through writing this.

There is nothing Kate loves as much as the first Cordial of the season.

Especially because it’s not official, and mostly gives off a sense of hanging out with friends. True, friends that you plan to slay on the track the same day, but true friendship sees beyond the bounds of physical violence and competitiveness, and it’s capable to grow from it, and etcetera, and etcetera.

The point is, it’s like the first day of school, but minus teachers, school work, the psychological hangover from the break, and that sense of desolation and growing dread that school is so apt at giving. It’s more about seeing your friends again, catching up on who’s dating who, who has a new haircut, who has a new ex that they are all promised to hate, as friends do, and to have some fun. Plus, beer goes around continuously, and that cheers up any event.

Basically placing a little friendly match after tryouts, without any actual rules or score keeping, was a lovely idea in every sense, and if Kate actually knew who came up with it, she would buy them a drink.

For most of the day, Kate doesn’t even do anything. She has her skates on, to get in the spirit of the event, and a plastic cup full of beer in hand, for the same reason. She sits by the track, idly watching the disorganized matches (noticing that most of the players are getting tipsy, and almost no one is even playing with their actual team. Damn, she loves this thing) and chatting with friends she hasn’t seen for some time now, some from her own team and several from the others. For competition, they tend to get along quite well.   

But the true joy of the Cordial isn’t just seeing the old faces again. It’s in getting to know the fresh meat.

It’s usually pretty easy to spot them, excited though not sure for what, exactly, and even the most extroverted among them holding on tightly to the friends they made on the team during tryouts. Kate recognizes that, she remembers going through it, and she knows they’ll relax and find their way eventually. She would help them, like she tries to every season, but this time she doesn’t have eyes for them. Her attention has been diverted to one new face in particular.

The Patriots have a new jammer.

Kate has no clue why she’s so set on her, but something about the girl hooked her as soon as she stepped through the door. She _is_ easy to notice, tall and strong and striking, and she’s right on display, since the Patriots are the only team using the track with real intent.

The Patriots are the only ones in the league that take life seriously enough to refuse to have fun and mingle with other teams during Cordial, and the general suspicion is that they only show up to spy on other teams, which is a waste of their time if you ask Kate, because no one gives their top performance on Cordial.

Kate doesn’t understand them. Sure, competition is great, she’s all for it, but they are _stressful_. They all love the sport, but Kate can count in one hand the ones among them who didn’t turn to it as a form of escape, originally. It’s supposed to be _fun_ , essentially, before any real life bullshit, and even winning isn’t that great. And Kate says that as someone who loves to win and hates to lose, and it takes something out of her to admit that.

Whatever. They are the sore bruise all the other teams poke fun at, not for lack of talent (they are one of the biggest potencies of the league), but for being so stuck up. It’s how they cope; the Patriots can continue to antagonize them and they can continue to mock them and everyone goes home happy, presumably.

But, flaws aside, do they ever have a good taste in jammers. Like, really.

Kate pokes her teammate, Carmen, until she gets her full attention. “Who’s that?” She asks, gesturing with her chin to the girl, easily visible thanks to her height and dark skin and general sense of presence.

Carmen squints for a moment, possibly through the fog of beer clouding her vision. “The Patriot’s new jammer.”

“I figured as much, nerd,” Kate bumps her shoulder against hers, lightly. “What else can you give me?”

“She’s… good?” Carmen offers, shrugging. “Brutal? I don’t know, I’m not a psychic,” she bites her lip, like she’s remembering something. “Heard she was from out of town.”

“Thanks, Car, you’re a regular encyclopedia.”

Carmen laughs and gives her the middle finger and reaches out for another beer, Kate’s sarcasm sliding right off her shoulders. Ah, the fun times of Cordial. Best time of the year.

Leaning back with the palms of her hands flat behind her on the bench, Kate resumes her… Well, it’s not stalking. She’s just favorably impressed, and it’s not like there’s a whole lot else to watch besides her giggling teammates and opponents. Plus, she’s wondering how facing her on the track is going to be like. Kate is the jammer for the Sharp Shooters, and she can hold her weight as much as the next woman, but she relies on speed and dexterity. This girl’s a _tank_.

Well, she’s getting her chance at a free tryout, because the Sharp Shooters and the Patriots will play the last match of Cordial, as the first and second placed teams of the last season _respectively,_ a point Kate plans to drive home until she’s literally forced to stop, and that’s only going to happen when she’s dragged kicking and screaming from the victor’s position.

Roller Derby isn’t for the weak, all things considered. 

Daylight starts to slide into afternoon, eventually, and different teams flit to and from the tracks. Kate and her teammates keep to their bench, and the other girls come and go, sitting by them, on top of them, wherever they can find place to fit, all talking over one another and loudly, starting arguments that dissolve into laughter midway.

It feels exactly like what people used to tell her family gatherings should be like.

At some point, Kate happens to glance over the head of Meredith, from the Rolling Thunderers, who’s nearly hanging off her lap, chatting up Carmen and Astrid, and she catches sight of the new jammer staring back at her, in conversation with a teammate of her own. It looks almost like she’s asking about Kate, just as Kate did about her.

 _Well then,_ Kate thinks, tossing her hair and preening a bit. It’s made harder by Meredith’s weight on top of her, but she pulls it off.

Until she sees the teammate snickering in an altogether unfriendly way, that is.

Meredith, head pillowed on Carmen’s thigh, takes one look at her face and fills her cup again.

“Whatever it is, it’ll make you feel better,” she says. Kate chugs it down, fuming.

Later, when the girls are laughing too much and focusing too little, and they threaten to skate themselves against a wall or right to the ground too often, the general consensus is that Cordial’s drawing to a close. They always relocate to the local house party and keep going, but it’s wisest that they don’t do it on wheels – injuries are bad enough when they aren’t inflicting them on themselves.

But they still have the one match to play.

As usual, her team is somewhere between fuzzy and flat out drunk to the Patriots’ perfect sober. It’s a no brainer why they always win Cordial, but then, Kate guesses, it must hardly feel like a victory if no one else is bothering to compete. The derby is the endgame, not that they play any lighter on Cordial. It’s a good thing they get wasted, or Cordials would probably get heated more often than not.

The teams take their positions, haphazardly, and it’s not unusual for them to take some time sorting themselves out. Kate, quietly sliding to her positing next to new jammer, plans to take full advantage of that.

“Wassup,” she asks the other jammer, only slurring a little. The girl gives her an odd look, but she’s almost smiling, so that’s okay.

“Nothing much,” she says. “Cordial’s not all it was cracked to be.”

“Only cause you’re sober,” Kate says, beaming. That gets her another odd look.

“Right. So you say,” she flicks her eyes – dark, pretty, long lashes – to the side, then returns them to Kate, giving her a full grin that is only mildly like a smirk. “Kate’n’barrel.”

Kate lifts a shoulder, modestly. “You have me at disadvantage here. You know my battle name, but I don’t know yours.”

“Miss America.”

“Nice. What’s your real name?”

She hesitates a second. “America Chavez,” she introduces, offering her hand. Kate’s eyebrows shot up as she takes it.

“How very appropriate,” she smiles. “I’m Kate Bishop.”

She thinks she hears America say ‘pleasure’, but the teams are finally on position and ready to go, so they both turn forward, interrupting the conversation. Still, Kate has the time to one final comment before they start.

“Tell me, America, how well do you take losing?”

She doesn’t turn to the side, but she can hear America laughing. “Oh, princess, you’ve got another thing coming.”

And then they’re off.

 *** 

 Two days later, Kate meets up with Cassie on their favorite backstreet, Kate on her skates and Cassie on her bike. They have been doing this for – how long now? A very long time, at least once a week, and always before lunch when the sun is warm but not so hot that it’s unbearable.

The derby is something new, comparatively. She had been rolling around with Cassie long before. Across the country, even.

As far as skate-related things are concerned, this is Kate’s most cherished tradition.

“–and the new uniforms arrive Wednesday,” Kate is saying, moving from one side of the bike to the other, hands crossed behind her back.

“Still can’t believe you got it that cheap,” Cassie says, reeling her bike to the side to try and trap Kate. She doesn’t.

It’s an old game and Kate’s good at it.

“Right? Contacts will get you anywhere,” Tania’s new girlfriend’s cousin’s stepmother’s neighbor got them a sweet deal at a specialized tailor. Or something. Kate hadn’t actually been able to follow after the third kinship line.

“So, any excitements thus far?” Cassie asks.

Kate flings herself to her other side using the back of the bike as support. It veers Cassie a little off course to the left, and she laughs, straightening herself.

“Not really,” Kate begins, then reconsiders. “The Patriots got a new jammer.”

It’s not quite news, that. Not in the way Cassie had been asking, at least. She wanted a little harmless gossip, some funny story that might’ve happened, drama. Something substantial. And Kate gave her… nothing. 

But Cassie asked for excitements, and that’s the only thing exciting Kate’s imagination right now. She doesn’t know _why_ , mind. She exchanged too few words with the other girl to say she’s captivated by her personality, though she did find her interesting. There’s just something about the other jammer – about America, which Kate has been pronouncing with some delight in her head, because it really is appropriate, hell, and also, it’s a nice name. She liked it – that caught Kate’s attention and held it, even after Cordial was over.

Not that Kate’s developed an obsession or anything. She’s only been thinking of America sporadically over the past two days, at unexpected times. Like right now. Cassie asked, and it popped up in her head again, not by any relation Kate can see, but undeniably.

Go figure. Kate isn’t looking into it too deeply. She’s given up on self-analysis a few years back, deciding life was pretty self explanatory if you just gave events a chance to unfold. She’ll know it when it comes to her, or she won’t. Whatever has to be will be and all that.

“Oh,” Cassie replies, glancing at Kate from the corner of her eye. Yeah, they know each other alright. “Is she nice?”

And Kate is well versed enough in girl talk to understand ‘nice’ means a whole world of other things.

“Nice? She’s… I mean. About as nice as I am.” Cassie _laughs_ , so Kate rolls closer to flick her ear, quickly moving out of reach again. “Hey, that’s still way nicer than Eli was when we met him, and look at us now.”   

“Fair point,” Cassie concedes, taking her hands off the handlebars to fix her hair and steering only with her feet. Show off. “Is that all?”

No. “Yep,” Kate shrugs. “She’s just interesting. Not as antagonistic as the rest of her team.”

“Ugh,” Cassie agrees, only because she has to, as Kate’s best mate. There’s no heat in it, however. Cassie doesn’t throw hate around, and she has nothing against the Patriots.

To be perfectly fair, neither has Kate, not really. She doesn’t like them because _they_ don’t like _her_ , and they didn’t like her _first_. But still, she realizes they are not a hive mind of perpetual ambition – they only act like one when they’re together.

But she still remembers one of them lending Carmen clean underwear when she had her period at break time, and the other time Linda from Meredith’s team had that pregnancy scare and one of them - Gina, Kate’s almost sure – talked to her till she calmed down when she locked herself in the restroom and wouldn’t let them in.

They’re nice. They could be friends. And if it wasn’t for that time the Patriots’ pivot was the daughter of the Blade Runner’s coach and the entire season dissolved into a huge family feud that only served to sour the intentions of everyone involved, they probably would be. But then the teams were sworn enemies and even though the cast changed in the mean time, people act according to the habits they acquired, usually without questioning them.

It’s a true fact. David told her that.

And since Kate has some habits of her own, she’s not exactly advocating better communication.

She speeds up until she can roll ahead, stopping with a drawn out pirouette in front of Cassie. She throws her arms up. “Ta-da!”

“No points granted for style.”

Kate flips her hair back. “There should be. Race you to that tree?”

Cassie grins. “See you there.”

And if both resort to childish cheating for the gold, well.

They never _banned_ it.

*** 

Usually, to Kate, practice is great fun. Not as fun as the actual games, but close. It’s not the pleasure of playing for real, but it’s much more focused than Cordial, although that isn’t exactly a challenge, and a chance to immerse herself in her beloved sport and ignore real life problems for a few hours.

But there are times when her real life problems follow her to the track, and sour her mood entirely.

Case in point, she makes the mistake of opening a voice message from an unknown number right before practice with the Patriots.

Apparently her father has a new phone. Swell.

“You are tearing this family apart!” He shouts, and Kate is less than impressed. That’s so overdone. She can imagine him perfectly, red faced and bulging veins, shaking one fist as he yells. “I gave you everything, _everything,_ and you _abandon_ us to live with pot heads and– And– You _ungrateful_ –”

His vocabulary becomes lacking and his italics abundant and noticeable. Kate, who’s more than used to this, knows he’s about to switch gears, try to win her over with a different technique. He is a businessman, after all. He’s used to trying everything to get a deal on his terms.

Or almost everything. Before he continues, there’s always a charged pause, and Kate knows, as certainly as she knew how to find her bedroom in their home, that he is considering using her mother against her. But he never had. Never _could_.  

He has some scruples.

“You need to come home,” he says, neither low nor nice, but lower and nicer than his previous tone, and that’s about as much as he’s capable of. He has a naturally loud and harsh tone of voice. And personality.

Also, Kate was right on the change of tactics. Score one for the home team.

“We are a family,” he’s telling her, like it’s new information. “We should stay together. What kind of family lives a country apart from each other and _won’t take phone calls–_ ”

He begins to shout again, but his voice is cut off, and Kate can hear the sound of a scuffle on his end. When it’s done, her sister’s voice comes through.   

“Hey Kate, it’s Susan,” she sounds slightly apologetic. Their father always did make them sound like that. It’s basically his power card, along with infinite money. “Listen, I’m sorry about dad–” Ah, there it is. “–He’s not being his most reasonable. But he does have a point, you know. We haven’t seen you in forever! We miss you.”

Susan sighs.

“Look, just. Pick up your phone calls every once in a while, okay? Don’t block dad again, he’s running out of numbers to buy. And at least think about coming home for Christmas. Please. As you just heard, we were a little upset that you said no. I have to go now, bye! I love you!”

She hangs up, but before the line goes dead, Kate can hear her father close by on the background, shouting “And tell her–!”

Kate has to… She just has to sit down for a moment. A few moments. A minute or two. She takes a few breaths, tries to count backwards from ten, then from one hundred, the way her old therapist told her to do as a way to control her anger.

It does nothing.

She balls her fists until she can’t feel the tips anymore, and she might be baring her teeth but she’s not aware of herself enough to know. Good thing she’s alone – the locker room is empty but for her.

The thing is, it’s not like she hates her family. Maybe it would be easier if she did, she can’t tell. But she doesn’t. She never has. They are generally nuisance, but they are her family. She only hates the idea they have of her and what she _should_ be, and how they constantly force it down her throat.

Since she was born, they’ve been dumping all these elaborate plans on her, these expectations of what person she would grow up to be, what part she would play in the grand scheme of the Bishop way of life, what _mold_ she would fill. And that’s what she’s always hated, what she can’t stand to be around, because they still do it, still think she’s going to get over her _phase_ and fold quietly to what they want.   

And that’s never going to happen, because surprise, surprise! Kate _likes_ who she is, even if the rest of the clan just can’t deal with it.

Thankfully, she knows exactly how to calm herself down from these situations. She’s only been practicing her entire life; her skills have been honed to perfection.

She closes her eyes and pictures her father’s office, with all its white walls and floor to ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan, very classy, very modern, very impersonal. He is there, behind his desk, and there’s a reporter with him. He’s doing his annual interview for Forbes’ richest men alive.

Right when they’re breaching his home life, and how hard it must have been to raise two girls by himself after his first wives’ tragic death – “Though it was easier thanks to my wife Heather, who gets along so well with the girls and helped them overcome the trauma, she’s really like their second mother,” his favorite party line, never mentioning the nannies and the private tutors and the large home staff and how Kate was already in high school when he met Heather because _Heather was in high school with her –_ Kate pictures herself barging in.

Rolling in, actually, on her skates. She’s wearing her favorite outfit that she got on a garage sale in Los Angeles, and her hair has the pink dye she’s debating getting, or maybe purple – her team’s color, go Shooters -, and it’s loose and longer than it was when she was home, almost waist length. She rolls right over to his desk, stops with a pirouette, and just for kicks she imagines doing that thing where you hold your leg over your head like the ice skating girls do (a skill she does not possess, but so what? This is _her_ fantasy). The reporter immediately turns to her.

Then she just… Talks and talks, and says everything that has been stuck on her throat for years.

That’s it. Her happy place. Nothing violent, and nothing peaceful. It’s the opportunity of making her family see her as she is without letting them ignore her. To show the whole world who Kate Bishop is, and that she won’t be hidden away with nicely written declarations by her father’s PR team.

It’s disgustingly simple, but it does it for her.

Her therapist hadn’t glowed with happiness when Kate described it to her, but she was glad Kate had something to turn to. They had worked extensively on finding healthy ways of dealing with her anger without resorting to violence. Kate had been sent to her for getting in one too many fights, so that was only to be expected. Regular techniques hadn’t done it for her, so Dr. Mendel was pleased she could find something that relaxed her.

Same thing with archery, which grounds her and relieves the tension. She never got to know about the derby, Kate hadn’t felt the need to call her up since she relocated to the west coast, but she assumes it would have the same effect. It’s a violent sport, but it is a _sport_. Kate isn’t randomly attacking anyone, she’s encouraged to hit. And boy, does that feel awesome or what.

Regardless of the psychiatric value of her inner peace place, Kate’s feeling pretty well by the time the door opens up and America strolls in. Her shoulders have slumped and there’s a dopy grin plastered on her face as she goes over her grand entrance over and over.

It’s not really a surprise that America takes one look at her, furrows her perfect eyebrows and asks “Are you high?”

Kate smiles wider. “Only on life and its endless possibilities.”

“So yes,” America grins. Very white teeth. She looks great today, quite hot. Kate hadn’t thought that about her before – at least not with all the letters – but she’s not surprised that she does. It’s not a realization or anything. Just fact. “What’s gotten you so happy?”

“Greetings from the progenitor,” Kate shrugs, because what the hell? If America heard anything about Kate by now – and Kate likes to think she did, she’s a household name of the derby and she’s proud of it – she already thinks Kate’s weird. It’s a reputation Kate has claimed and revels in, as it gives her a lot of space to do whatever the hell she feels like if everyone already expects anything from her.

A far cry from prep school, that’s for sure.

“Better channel some violence and put your game face on,” America tells her, fastening her helmet. She’s smirking a little. “I’m not going to go easy on you again.”

“Oh?” Kate asks, getting up from her bench and approaching America, like she’s trying to mock-intimidate her, which she is, but it would be a tragic misinterpretation of her character to think that’s all she’s doing. “You were going easy on me before?”

Kate has some bruises that say otherwise.

America shoves at her shoulder, but not hard. “I don’t make it my business to abuse drunk people.”

“I’m sober now.”

“So you say,” she retorts, and Kate flicks her on instinct, like she would Cassie. She wants to die more than a little, but America rolls with it like a champ, bless her.

“Huh,” Kate humph. ‘You want sober, I’ll show you sober. Just wait.”

America seems supremely unconcerned. “May the best one win,” she says, casually.

“I will,” Kate informs her, and she can hear America’s chuckle as they roll out of the locker room.

*** 

The next time they have practice, they purposefully slam their shoulders against each other when they file to the jammer position.

“Taste the floor,” America mutters.

“Eat my dust,” Kate hisses back.

She can’t stop smiling.

By what she spies when no one is looking, neither can America.

*** 

To Kate, matches always have a particular smell of popcorn, beer and sweat. She assumes this comes from the popcorn stand being right by the track, and the fact everyone has a cup on them before the game even starts. The sweat is self-explanatory.  

The combination shouldn’t smell good, but it does. Possibly because Kate learned to associate it with a feeling of triumph, which she has been told is her ego talking, but see if she cares. It’s not vanity if you deserve it.

What? She does win often.

She’s good.

The Shooters are playing the Speed Queens, which Kate originally felt bad about, since almost the entire team is new, due a huge coincidence at the end of the last season. Even more coincidentally, half of them had gone to Oregon, though for entirely different reasons. But, as she has been informed, the rookies aren’t bad, and they’re _new_ , so they haven’t a clue of what they’re capable of yet.

They are uncharacteristically nervous.

And yet, Kate leaves the locker room while the rest of her team is still making fun of Jessica for her lucky underwear to go meet up her friends on their seats at the track. Because she’s one hell of a good friend.

She can spot them from far away, easily recognizable to her, not to mention that they always take the same seats (a fact that once let to the most hilarious shouting match Kate has ever witnessed when someone tried to take it from them). But she only sees four heads over the crowd, and not one with jet black or white hair.

Billy and Tommy aren’t around.

“Where’s Twiddle-Dum and Twiddle-Dee?” She asks, because they’re still milking the twins thing for all it’s worth.

“Bowling. No, for real,” Eli informs her, trying to keep his popcorn out of her reach. He gets snippy when she steals his food. “Wanda showed up and they couldn’t say no.”

Right. Wanda did that sometimes.

No that Kate blames her. If she had been forced to give up her kids to foster care then spend half her life searching for them, she would damn well visit them anytime she felt like it too. And she usually takes them all out to ‘meet the boys’ friends’, and she _pays_ for everything, because she’s like, loaded, so Kate has only positive feelings about her person.

“They texted to tell you good luck,” David says. “Well, Billy did, anyway. Tommy told you to break a leg.”

Kate takes a sip from Eli’s drink when he’s not looking. “Thought that was for theater.”

“Not _your_ leg,” David clarifies, leaning into Cassie’s side and away from the danger area when Eli grabs the drink back from her hand.

“We’ll be filming the best moments,” Teddy says. Kate starts to smile, then doubles back to look him over.

“Why aren’t you with Billy?” She asks, looking over the rest of them to make sure she isn’t stepping on perilous territory. Which would be shocking, because since when do Billy and Teddy have perilous territories?

“I didn’t want to intrude on a family moment,” he says, then catches sight of the others’ faces. “I do go out without him, you know.”

Kate lifts a shoulder. “Yeah, but not… often.” 

She’s not lying. It’s unusual to see Teddy without Billy attached to his side, and vice-versa. They’re on that level of grossly in love with each other.

“We’re all uncomfortable with this,” Cassie assures her, and Teddy rolls his eyes.

“Please, let’s not make this into another unnecessary codependency intervention,” he pleads, but he’s smiling. He’s a very nice guy, Teddy. They are lucky to have him as a friend, given that as a group they are mostly assholes to varying degrees, including Billy. He points behind her to where the teams are filing in, and gently pushes her shoulder. “You’re needed. Go make us proud.”

She laughs, turning her palms up. “What, you’re not already?”

They say no, but they’re lying.

The next hour isn’t a blur, but Kate can’t say she remembers everything. It’s hard to, when she’s so focused the only thing she can think of is how she’s going to cross the pack faster if she has to knock them down like the bowling pins Tommy and Billy are taking aim at right now.

She remembers the best parts, though. The sound of the crowd screaming her name when she’s introduced as a fan favorite. The initial reaction on her stomach the first second after she starts rolling for the first time. The taste of the drink she sips from a glass one of the viewers always offers. Together, they form the tapestry of the things Kate thinks she’s going to remember her whole life, even while she forgets the rest. These little fragments are the ones that stick.

But for now, in this moment, Kate doesn’t think of the past or the future, only of the present. It’s not an easy game. These girls aren’t only good, but they’re out to build a reputation too, and what better way to do that than beat one of the tougher competitors of the race? The Shooters will be feeling the consequences of that for a good week.

Kate tries to give back as good as she gets but. Well. The thing is, she’s a speedster. If they’re racing there’s no one on the league that can catch her. But when it comes to brute strength…

She has a naturally bony built, alright? Susan has it too, it’s a family trait.

Not, incidentally, one they get from their father. _He’s_ built like a tank.

The allergy to _peanuts_ he’ll pass on, but when it comes to something _useful_ …

Anyway. Kate compensates by racing past them, keeping herself out of reach for full-on assaults. Her team helps her out, moving to use the plays that protect their jammer and keep the other team out. They trained for this; Kate’s their secret weapon for situations just like this one.

It doesn’t always work, of course. It’s a contact sport, you can’t always prevent contact, Kate _gets_ that.

But _ow._

The other jammer sends her reeling straight toward the rail, which Kate tries to avoid by turning and instead hits it with her back, right where her lungs are, or at least she thinks so. It takes the breath out of her, and though she tries to get up and shake it off, all she manages is to turn and bend over to the crowd side.

The screaming is now right on her ears, but none of it is discernible except for the voices she knows most intimately. How useful it is that her friends are loud.

“Fault!” She can pick up on Eli’s voice screaming as she’s hit.

“Not really!” David shouts back.

“What?”

“It was a clean move!”

“I don’t get this game!”

“Go, Kate! Come on!” That’s Cassie.

Teddy cheers without words, but loud enough that Kate picks up anyway.

It’s not a magic moment where their support heals her, but it’s about as close as she’ll get. It still takes her more time than she can really afford to get back up and keep moving, and even then she could have done it without the incentive. But it’s nice to know they’re there for her.

She does eventually get herself together, and it may be too late to win this jam, but the game is far from over, and now Kate wants to beat them more than ever, because she may _accept_ violence is a part of the game but that doesn’t mean she isn’t going to take it personally sometimes. Most times.

Look, if you hit Kate, she’s probably not going to be too happy, you know. It’s that simple.

She’s going to bring them victory if she has to actually break a leg to do it.

*** 

No gratuitous violence is necessary, in the end. Kate’s weakness is her strength and her strength is her speed. She uses that.

A little teamwork, the crowd bellowing for the whip, Kate bending to close to the ground for the extra speed that she could touch it; those are the only things necessary.

The Shooters move up a spot on the rank for the championship.

They celebrate their success with loud music and cheap wine, and it’s amazing even if people keep patting Kate’s back over the bruise forming there.

*** 

The next day, Kate and her friends meet at the local diner.

Tommy and Billy are present, the latter safely reattached to Teddy’s side, and everything is as it should be. Their table – actually two tables pushed together to accommodate them all – is covered in dropped french fries and puddles of soda and ketchup that fell of their burgers. Realistically, they could probably make a small meal out of the things littering the table top.

They’ve eaten their weight a couple of times by now. Nothing in this place is healthy, but it’s all delicious.

“I can’t believe you did a double whip and I wasn’t there to see it,” Billy complains, watching the video on Teddy’s phone. Kate isn’t surprised he’s upset; she took a look at the video, and Teddy shakes so much when filming something you can hardly tell the players from the crowd.

Not a problem, however, because he has them to describe it for him in vivid detail, which they have been doing since they sat down, loudly and mostly at the same time.

Tommy leans forward, pointing at her with his straw. “Come on, Bishop, show us again.”

The others agree, shouting and banging their fists at the table.

God, they are exactly the hooligans old people hate, aren’t they?

Kate turns around and lowers her shirt, exposing her back. There’s a collective hiss, even though they’ve seen it before.

There, covering most of the area to the left of her body and under her bra strap, there is a huge red-and-purple bruise blooming. It’s painful just to look at, and worse to have. Kate had some difficult moments during her morning shower.

“It’s bigger than my head,” Billy states, trying to approach for a closer look.

“And your head is huge,” Tommy replies, earning a handful of Billy’s fries to the face.

Beaming proudly and shuffling her hair like a celebrity, Kate turns back to them. She feels like a war hero, or like the kids in third grade triumphantly showing off their skate injuries to a fascinated crowd of children asking to touch it. It’s great. And she deserves to feel great, she hurt for it.

Not that she ever needs the excuse, but it’s valid.

A good thirty minutes roll by where they manage to talk about other things. Cassie and David compare notes about their professors, for example, and it turns to a discussion of teachers they had and why they impressed them enough, positively or negatively, that they can still remember them.

Kate’s almost sure they had the exact same conversation before, but the stories still make her laugh and groan at the appropriate moments. 

That’s when the door opens with a soft sound that Kate would have missed if it hadn’t allowed cold air to enter the room. Almost no one ever comes to this place, because it’s the kind of hidden spot only locals and the lucky know about, which is why they love it so much. They can be as loud as they want and no one minds. So she turns her head out of idle curiosity, more out of instinct than any interest in who’s coming in.

And of course it has to be America Chaves, gorgeous and imposing as ever, approaching the cashier with her hands in her pockets, totally at ease.

Fuck. Fuck, _shit_ , Kate hasn’t even washed her _hair_ , fuck.

She turns away, desperately trying to do something about her bangs without giving herself away, but there’s only so much one can accomplish based on one’s reflection in the metallic leg of the table.

Dammit, she could at least have some mascara around. In New York she never left home without it, when did she stop that amazingly clever habit?

Oh right, when carrying a purse became ‘impractical’.

Cassie catches Kate’s…‘suffering’ might be a strong word, but she latches on to the fact Kate’s no longer with them, and, searching for the cause, she gets America in her line of sight. She pauses for a moment, examines the other girl, frowns. Turns back to Kate.

 _Is that the Patriots girl?_ , she mouths. Kate nods.

Cassie looks at America one more time, gives her the once over. Then she turns to Kate again, wiggling her eyebrows.

Kate shows her the tongue.  

At first Kate tries to play it cool, but then she’s hit by the brilliant notion that she doesn’t have to. Doesn’t she know America already? Haven’t they talked before?

So. _So_.

She can talk to her. It’s not weird, or pushy. Just, casual. To rivals bumping into each other at a burger joint, nothing out of the ordinary. Kate won’t come across too eager. Hopefully.

“Hey,” she calls, and America’s eyes widen when she catches sight of Kate. She clearly hadn’t noticed Kate at all. Well, that’s a boost to the old self esteem. Kate tries to say something great to make up for that, exposing her amazing personality if not her striking presence. “What’s up?”

It’s possible Kate’s not very good at this.

Her friends finally catch up to the fact there’s a whole Event, upper case letter, happening right under their noses, and start paying attention. It would have been better they didn’t, to be honest; the sudden silence makes their exchange heavier by contrast.

Under the new scrutiny, America looks. Huh. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Kate might be wrong but she got the feeling America wasn't built with the capacity to not feel comfortable with herself always. Self conscious, okay, uncertain of herself, sure, happens to everybody, but Kate’s never seen anyone make her feel uncomfortable in her own skin.

Not that Kate’s watching, or anything. She’s not.

And if she keeps saying it maybe someone will believe it.

In any case, America doesn’t give off airs of joy at the six pairs of eyes now on her, not including Kate’s own. That’s what Kate has been aiming at.  

She shifts her weight to her other foot. “Not much. Getting some food to go,” she gestures at the food with her head, like Kate needs the help.

Kate’s not giving a good impression here, is she?

Crap. This is why she prepares for things beforehand.

“I heard about your game,” America offers. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” she smiles distractedly. She’s losing her, she’s losing her, if there’s one thing her father taught her is that you can’t let them slip away, do whatever you have to but don’t let them get away. She has another brilliant thought. “Why don’t you sit with us?”

Amazing. She smiles winningly.

And okay, maybe she gets a couple odd looks, but who are these people to judge anyway? If they were the closed-off type of group that never gets in touch with other people they wouldn’t have met David, or Tommy, and even Kate and Cassie would be out, not to mention the people who have come and gone in the past.

They’ll get used to the idea.

The real problem is America not digging it, of course. She bites her lip, leaning back against the counter. “I don’t want to intrude…”

 _Don’t let them get away!,_ a miniature of her father shakes his fist at the back of Kate’s mind.

“It’s no problem!” she assures, moving to the side to open up some space. It starts a chain reaction of everybody shuffling over and squeezing together to create enough room.

“Not going to be weird for you?” America asks, but in a dry tone, more gentle mocking – or at least Kate hopes it’s gentle – than anything serious. Apparently, she’s resigned to her fate. “Eating with your biggest competitor?”

Kate’s willing to bet America cares less about that than Kate cares about thermonuclear science and her sister’s husband’s opinion on the stock market, so she considers it safe to say it’s a joke.

“I didn’t see the Tablet of Commandments on the locker room that said I can’t,” She teases back, voicing it like a challenge, because here’s a little tidbit Kate learned about America during practice: nothing gets her going like a challenge. Like Kate and people telling her she can’t do things.

In a way, they are almost the same thing, so it’s not exactly a wonder they get along so charmingly, right?

Right.

And maybe America knows that Kate knows this detail about her, as she starts to grin like she can’t help it, but she turns around to get her food before Kate can take a good look at it, covering her face with her hair.

You can’t win them all. At least she got America to sit with them.

“Okay, so,” she starts, as America squeezes into her place besides Kate. It’s a tight fit; they both need to keep a leg crossed on one side to avoid the table, and on the other side they are pressed thigh to knee. America is wearing shorts. So is Kate. She tries not to think about that too hard. “Guys, this is America. America,” she hesitates for an instant, than gestures grandly at the whole table, encompassing all of them. “The guys.”

Hey, maybe America isn’t good with names. Kate doesn’t want to make it embarrassing for anyone if she forgets one here and there. Besides, these things come up naturally at some point.

There’s a chorus of hellos, and America waves her hand once, but Kate thinks she’s the only one who hears the quiet ‘hola’ she says under her breath.

It’s… awkward. Very awkward, at first, no one wanting to continue a conversation that might not include the stranger to the nest, but no one knowing how to include her either. With all the staring down at the plates and aborted attempts of starting something and oddly loud chewing, Kate almost starts to regret it.

And Kate tries to never regret trying something new, since it got her so many good things. It’s practically her life philosophy.

But then Billy opens his mouth.

“I saw a video of your tryouts on the official regional derby website,” he says in wonder, because he’s that much of a nerd, bless him. “You are so strong.”

America laughs, and just like that the weirdness is over. All they needed was a little traction.

Kate’s going to buy Billy one of the graphic shirts he loves so much.

That is. She’ll _make_ him one of those shirts. Fashion is expensive.

It turns out the whole crew gets along great. America isn’t bad with names, and she has them all memorized within minutes. There are no bad moments and no one steps on any sore spots or bad subjects. Soon enough it’s like they’ve known each other for a long time.

At some point, America glances at her, and in her eyes Kate can see something she wouldn’t call gratitude, but there’s a specific sort of warmth there that wasn’t there before.

And Kate remembers that America is from out of town and she probably hasn’t had the time to make a lot of friends yet. As far as Kate can recall, she doesn’t even seem that familiar with her team. And while they are friends when they are on the tracks with their skates, or at least friendly, they aren’t close, and it’s not actually all that common to invite people you only know that little to join your best friends. There’s no real reason for it, but that’s the way it is. Kate knows it, America knows it, everyone knows it. It’s unusual for Kate to do that, and to not have said goodbye and let America leave.

Not that America is hunting for favors, which is why she can’t call it gratitude. She doesn’t owe Kate anything and she’s aware of that. Plus, it _wasn’t_ a favor, which would indicate she was granting something that might cost her. Kate isn’t a saint; she’ isn’t even a nun. She tries hard to do the right things because she believes in the power of doing good, but she does things for her own eventual profit too.

And this fits. Because it doesn’t make America feel in debt, but it does bring her closer to the sphere of existence Kate inhabits, which is progress, as up to this point America was more like a faraway concept of a person than a tangible human being Kate could interact with openly. And she’s happy. Satisfied. Not at ease, not right away, surrounded by all these people she doesn’t know, but getting closer to it, closer than Kate’s ever seen her. 

So Kate had her own reasons to integrate America to her group on the first given chance, yes, no questions there. And that is the something that’s building inside her, hot and euphoric, that she feels whenever America’s close by. And Kate’s felt this before, she knows where this is headed for her, and where she would ideally like it to be headed for them. So it’s fundamental that America and her friends get along, because her friends are like family to her, she cares about what they think.

And if she gets her way, they’ll be seeing a lot more of each other in the future.

But if, on top of all that, it gives America something she likes, something she’s been wanting, then to Kate that’s the best part. Call her silly, but at this point, she just enjoys making America smile.

She’s always been a hopeless goof when it came to this.

*** 

It becomes obvious a mere week later that if Kate ever worried about her friends not liking America, she was wasting her time. They grow close quickly, and soon they are as much America’s friends as Kate’s, to the point of hanging out when she’s not there (which is frankly just rude, like, who introduced them? Way to show appreciation).

For all their collective faults, this is something they do right: love. Friendship, if you don’t want to get that profound, but to Kate one doesn’t exist without the other, and that’s something they all agree on. They are always ready to give anyone and everyone a chance, a place to fit in, and when they decide someone is worth it, that’s it, it’s forever now, no taking back. They’ll go the hundred extra miles for them.

It’s like Billy opening his house to Tommy, before the twins thing was made clear, before Wanda was in the picture, for no other reason than that he needed a home, and a family, and a safe place he could always go to, even if he couldn’t bear to be there all the time.

Or how they took turns sitting with Eli and his family on the hospital when his grandfather was ill, in groups of twos and threes, so he’d always have someone to turn to, and they wouldn’t leave no matter how hard he tried to shut them out.

Or – and that might be the one Kate holds most dearly, as it concerns her directly – how she opened her door one day, not too many months after moving, crazy with missing the people she left behind but not ready to take the first step in connecting, to find Cassie waiting for her with her bike for their ride, having transferred colleges because New York was too big and too empty without Kate there to brave it with, and NYU just wasn’t worth it if she couldn’t even enjoy it. 

That’s their skill, their great talent. To open their arms and love and accept, even as they tease each other mercilessly and steal each other’s food and crash drunkenly on each other’s couch more than is socially acceptable.

Yes, they are all assholes, Kate acknowledges that. Even Billy, excluding Teddy. They are all assholes. 

Except for when it matters.

*** 

In conclusion, America hangs out with them a lot now.

More importantly, she’s constantly existing in the same circle Kate exists, which is pretty freaking awesome, not gonna lie. Kate sees her in practice. She sees her at the dinner. She sees her at the park, and David’s flat, and the quaint little playground at the communal areas of Teddy’s building.

She gets to _know_ her. That’s the real kick.

And damn, America is worth knowing. She’s funny and sarcastic and she has the most amazing stories, and it takes less than five seconds to realize she’s completely and utterly loyal to those she cares about, and she’s devoted to her friends and she’s– Ah!

She’s a lot, alright? And Kate has possibly spent way too much of her time lately thinking about all the things America is, some light and not different than something she might mention to Cassie or Eli, and something she wouldn’t repeat in front of anyone younger than sixteen or older than thirty. Possibly, eighteen and twenty six, and not if someone could prove she said it.

America’s basically pretty great. Better to leave it at that.

(Though, it’s worth mentioning, America also has the ability of taking anything thrown her way, no matter how weird it might be, and rolling with it like it’s perfectly natural, which, Kate has to be candid, is a good skill to posses in their group, as experience has shown).

She always looks incredible.

That’s not really related. Except it is, totally.

She and Kate have taken to sitting down side by side with their legs touching, like they did at the diner, even when there’s enough room for that to be unnecessary.

Kate has taken to using shorts more often then she usually does, too. No one has mentioned it thus far, but she has gotten a few telling looks on occasion from the people who call themselves her dear friends.

To be fair to them, she hasn’t exactly been the model of subtlety.

To be fair to her, she hasn’t exactly been trying to.

*** 

Nothing smells quite like a female locker room after a roller derby practice.

And Kate’s saying that as someone who has been involved with organized sports before. It’s a particular scent of several different hair products and strongly-scented creams and medications and make up, all mixed up with sweat and cigarette smoke by the vapor from the showers, which serves only to make the smell feel damp and heavy and clingy.

It’s gross, in essence, but Kate’s grown used to it. She can’t say she learned to like it, but she got good at ignoring it, even though it’s so strong that it’s been known to cause watery eyes and sneezing. Scientists learn to ignore ammonia, don’t they? You can grow used to anything.

She’s one of the last people still around, choosing to take her shower later to enjoy the soothing water over her sore muscles without the rush that tends to be embodied by someone knocking on her stall and shouting “save some for me, yeah?”

Living in society is very hard, at times.

But like this, with almost everyone gone and the continuous filing in and out stopped, Kate gets to take her time and stay under the spray until the hot water ends. Sadly, that isn’t a very long time – a consequence of showering last. She leans against the tile one last time, lets the water wash away the soap, and steps out with a mournful sigh.

On the ever growing list of things Kate misses from being rich, before her father cut off her credit card supply in an effort to bring her home – because she would have absolutely kept the money if she could, who wouldn’t? It’s money –, she thinks she misses the Jacuzzi tub the most.  

Although, sometimes she thinks it’s the bed she longs for the hardest, when she forgets the limited space of her new bed and slams her head yet again. Other times she thinks it’s the fast internet connection.

Really, it’s probably the endless supply of food they seemed to have in the Bishop pantries. Though, there’s something to be said of cheap snack bars and fast food. She’s grown fond of those.

And okay, when she had the dough, it made her uncomfortable. It's just, there was that one time her father’s New Year’s party cost more than the gross amount of an entire re-urbanization project for a small country and Kate never managed to live that one down. But all things considered, not having to worry about whether she could live in the wild in case they cut her power _every month_ would be pretty neat.   

Humming under her breath, she wipes a portion of the mirror, puts on deodorant, and towel dries her hair. There’s something about the weather here that makes it go all frizzy if she’s not careful, so she dabs combing cream on her palm and starts forcing a brush through the tangled locks.

She knows she’s not alone because there’s a faucet running somewhere around, but only when it’s turned off does she finds out who’s around.

“…so I told her, ‘Is this the same Rose who’s a novice and wants to be a nun since he was thirteen? _That’s_ who he’s saying left panties in his car?’”

That’s Carmen, talking about her cousin’s crummy new boyfriend. Lena keeps picking up the worst guys who wouldn’t deserve her in a million years, and Carmen keeps getting frustrated about it. It’s been going on since before Kate met them.

By the hooting that follows the statement, Kate concludes Astrid is there too. She shimmies into her shorts and bra, throws her shirt over her shoulder, and goes to them, still struggling with her hair.

Not that she couldn’t have gone in the nude. It wouldn’t be showing the other girls anything they haven’t seen before. But it’s locker room etiquette.

“I know, right?” Carmen huffs, and there’s a loud sound like she hit or kicked something. She probably did. Who can judge her for it, really? “And get this: apparently she was ‘changing clothes for mass’ and ‘should he have let her change behind a bush’ and blahblahblah or some other bullshit.”

“Ugh,” coming into view, Kate summarizes her feelings on the subject. Astrid nods, while putting on her aerosol deodorant. They keep trying to make her change out of it, it’s bad for the environment.

“Make him take a hike,” a familiar voice suggests from behind her. Kate freezes.

America didn’t leave with her team, apparently. She’s sitting at one of the benches, her hair damp and darker than it usually is, dabbing ointment over the scratches and bruises on her arms. Her skates and jacket are beside her, and she’s wearing shorts and a loose shirt that slips off her shoulder, so Kate can see the blue strap of her bra.

And Kate’s there too. With America. Mostly naked, in case that wasn’t clear.

She’s shirtless and mostly wet and shirtless and _wet_ and that’s.

Well. That’s a development. An interesting one. Could be more interesting if Carmen and Astrid weren’t around, Kate suspects.

But beggars and choosers and everything, Kate’s aware of that.

She nods a greeting to America, who nods back, and pretends she can’t feel the eyes roaming her skin, even as she makes sure to turn around slowly and straighten her posture. But she can feel it perfectly fine, settling on her collarbones when she leans on the sink.

She works harder to untangle the mess on top of her head.

“He will,” Carmen waves it away, dropping on the bench across America’s. She’s only not topless because her hair is long enough to cover her breasts; Carmen doesn’t believe in locker room etiquette like Kate does. But then, she has abs like whoa and Kate doesn’t, so she has more reason to leave it all in the open. “Soon enough. They all do,” she shakes her head. “Don’t know why I complain so much, honestly. She’s not doing all that worse than I am.”

Pulling her hair into a bun, Astrid blows air through her teeth. “Don’t ask me. The closest thing to romance I’ve felt lately are greasy old guys trying to buy me drinks so I’ll have sex with them.”

There’s a collective groan-and-wince. They all understand. Pushy gross guys bothering younger women in clubs – who never?

Kate broke the hand of a guy who tried that, once, after she decided she was done being afraid and got some self defense classes. It was magical.

“What happened to Brad?” She asks.

“I dumped his lying ass, remember?”

“No, I know that. Is he still writing you those mix tapes?”

Astrid makes a retching sound.

Kate laughs. What? She heard the mix tapes, okay? And they were mostly Brad’s crappy garage band anyway, she’s entitled to laugh. Even Astrid laughed, when they were still dating, which might have played a minor part on their break up.

“What about you, Katie?” Carmen zeroes in on her, and the other two follow her lead. Kate will have to remember to thank her for that. “What’s been going on in the great love life of Kate Bishop?”

She twirls a wet strand of hair on her finger, knowing she’s not getting it any better than that. “Searching, but you know how it is. Squat, mostly, so far,” she risks a very quick, very discreet glance behind her shoulder. “At least since the last guy.”

Carmen and Astrid chuckle in the way of people who know the story already, but America leans forward on her elbows, suddenly more interested on the conversation. “What happened?”

Kate stares America right in the eyes. “Was seeing this guy. Great guy, very fun. And we weren’t serious or anything,” she feels her lips twitch at the memory. Sure, it’s funny _now_. “But I had to let him go when he sat me down and told me about the girl of his dreams, aka, his ex.”

“Ouch,” America laughs. She has no compassion. The fact Kate is laughing too is irrelevant.

She throws her shirt at America’s face. “What about you, huh, Miss America?” She singsongs the name. “What’s your dirty background?”

America flashes her killer grin. “The usual story. Met a guy, dated a guy. Had to let him go when I told him about the girl of _my_ dreams.”  

Nearly hitting the wall behind her, Kate throws her head back, laughing. “Oh, _classic_.”

America groans. “I know, I’m a damn cliché.”

“Have you found her yet?” Carmen asks. “If you have, can you teach me how?”

There’s a beat of silence. “No,” America says, and Kate thinks– It’s not her ego, she really thinks– That her eyes dart over to Kate for just a second. “Not just yet.”

 _But I think I’m getting closer,_ her eyes seem to say, and Kate hopes like she’s never hoped for anything that this isn’t just wishful thinking.

“Me neither,” she pipes in. “No boy, no girl. Nothing.”

Just to clarify. 

And if she’s _not_ seeing what she wants to see, America gets that.

Astrid moans and sighs at the same time, a remarkable skill. “We’re like the freaking lonely hearts club in here.”

“And isn’t that the saddest damn thing I heard all week,” Carmen puts on a sports bra and a jacket she leaves unzipped, and punches Astrid’s back, but not hard. “Now you have to buy me a drink.”

“You girls want in?” Astrid calls, already being dragged to the door.

They exchange a short but charged look.

“No thanks,” Kate says, looking at America.

“Pass,” America says, looking at Kate.

Then they’re gone.

And they’re alone.

“So,” Kate starts, only after they can hear the door click shut. She unpeels herself from the wall, making her voice as throaty and musical as she can, and approaches America without breaking eye contact. “No luck in love, huh? Is that why we’re such good players, I wonder?”

Right in front of America she stops, their legs almost touching but not quite, and where they are that near but with no contact, Kate can feel goosebumps. It’s almost better than touching.

Almost.

“Speak for yourself,” America smiles, as beautifully unguarded as Kate’s ever seen her. “I don’t need any luck.”

For executive purposes, Kate makes a conscious decision to let that one slide.

They haven’t broken eye contact yet, and there’s something about that, or maybe the dimly lit, hot and humid environment, or even some lingering adrenaline from practice that feels magic, like anything could happen. Kate knows what she _intends_ to happen.  

“You’re not even any close to finding her?” She has to ask because she’s curious as to the reply, for one thing, and for another it’s important to be clear on things.

“Close?” America asks, and they’re closer now, as she splays her palms on the bench besides her legs and leans forward. When she speaks, Kate can feel her breath on her bare stomach. “Yeah. I’m getting there, princess.”

That last word is whispered less like the silly spur of the moment nickname it is and more like an endearment.

And Kate…

Kate trips.

Or rather, she makes a somewhat convincing simulation of someone tripping.

It lands her on America’s lap, right where it was supposed to, and it’s a good thing she’s damn strong and constantly on alert, or this could have gone south way hard. Now they are touching everywhere, Kate’s legs over America’s, her arms around her neck, America encircling her waist, pulling her flush against her chest. From this position, she’s still looking down at America, but now from much closer, enough she can count every one of her lashes and they breathe the same air.

“Hi,” Kate says, smiling like a loon because she can’t actually stop herself. She’s trying to.

“Hi yourself,” America replies.

And then, well. What else could they do then?

Their lips smash together and boy can America kiss, god _damn_ , she kisses so well that Kate’s breathless in a minute, and it’s not like Kate hasn’t had any practice at this. Her hands run over Kate’s bare skin, nails dragging and catching slightly over the curve of bones, leaving hot trails wherever they go, and they go _everywhere._

But Kate’s never been shoddy at this, so she meets America every step of the way, sinking her fingers on her thick dark hair or trailing them down her shoulders, biting at her bottom lip–

The groan she gets when she does that last thing is the sweetest sound she’s ever heard.  

“ _Dios_ ,” America turns to Kate’s necks, pressing her lips to the underside of her chin so Kate can feel her words as well as hear them. “ _Tan hermosa_ , _yo–_ _Tanto tiempo– Kate–!”_

She then drags her lips to Kate’s ear, bites her earlobe once, which is very distracting, and follows the shell with her tongue, whispering very low, “ _Te quiero_.”

Out of all that, the only thing Kate catches is her name, really, but the tone sounds pretty good. Still, she would like to know what exactly is being said, so she pokes America’s shoulder. “In English, please.”

God, her voice is unbelievable. It’s as raspy as if she had been thirsty for forty-two years, which she blames America for entirely.

America leans away to allow Kate a perfect view of her frown. “What?”

“Just this once,” Kate explains, pushing her still wet hair away from her eyes. “I want to understand. It is complimentary, right?”

At first, the expression on America’s face is utterly disbelieving, but it morphs into laughter as Kate watches. “Princess,” she says, shaking her head. “Shut _up_.”

And then she resumes kissing, and when she murmurs, it is in Spanish like before, though, Kate guesses as an effort in nicety, with some English thrown in.

Alright then, Kate’s fine with that. It’s not like it was bad before, even – of course not. But the next order of business is she’s going to learn some Spanish.

Hey, she only wants to understand what’s being said, because it sounds like something she would be _very_ interested in. But she can’t be blamed for not racing off to a class now, can she? She’s kind of in the middle of something important.

Something important that just nipped her neck, _Jesus_.

The kiss becomes more heated, both of them moving together and pressing too tight, leaving marks they both won’t mind the next day. Kate pulls at America’s shirt because it suddenly occurs to her it’s not fair she’s the only one half naked, and America only takes her hands off Kate long enough to help out.

Kate tosses it to the side, way more concerned with the new view.

But she doesn’t get the chance to admire at length, however, not for now, because they keep coming back for each other’s mouth, too desperate for more. It tastes like every other kiss Kate’s ever had, like someone else’s mouth and her chapstick and the Gatorade that  goes around during practice, except that it’s a taste like no other because it’s a _good_ kiss, it _counts_ , and through the fireworks behind her lids Kate attributes it all the best qualities of the world.  

America runs her knuckles over her spine and Kate gasps and arches into her, which she takes as an invitation to lower her attentions to the collarbones she had admired before, then her sternum, then lower still, to the flesh right above where her breasts start, cupped by the bra, though not quite there, not yet, and she’s so doing it on purpose she’s such a mean person.

So mean, with the way her hands also run down her back from shoulder blades to below the waistband of her shorts, cupping her ass long enough to pull her flush against her own chest and continuing down and curling around the hems and _Jesus fucking Christ on a manger_ those were her fingers barely tracing the back of her _thighs_.    

If they keep going like this they will be lying on that bench soon enough, and Kate can’t allow that, unfortunately.

She doesn’t want to stop, she has never wanted to do something less her entire _life_ , but she does it anyway.

“Wait,” she pants, pulling back, but America doesn’t hear and accompanies the movement. Kate tugs at her hair to get her attention. “Hey, wait, no–”

“No?” America takes her hands off her like she’s caught on fire which was the _last_ thing Kate wanted.

“No! I mean, yes! Yeah, futzing– Yeah,” she hurries to explain. “Just not here. This place is gross, Astrid dropped a sandwich behind that bench a year ago and I think it’s still there. Plus there’s something living on the roof, I don’t know what and I don’t want to find out, so.” 

She gets up, grabbing America’s hands to pull her along then keeping hold of them.

“Then where?” America asks, taking her hands away but only so she can hug Kate’s waist with her arms.

“I have a– Home? I mean. It’s a trailer, not a house or whatever, but it is a home–”

America kisses her to shut off her rambling, and that’s quite offensive if she thinks about it but it’s good enough that she doesn’t. Plus, she kind of deserved it that time, she didn’t even know what she was saying anymore.

She has a lot on her mind, okay? Neither of them is wearing shirts yet.

“Works. Wheels?”

“Two, on my bike,” Kate bites her lip, and America only needs to glance at her expression to get it.

“We’re talking the basket-on-the-front type of bike here, aren’t we?” Kate nods. “That’s fine, I have something better.”

“I think ‘better’ is too strong a term for it, it’s a really good bike–”

“I’ve got a Harley.”

Kate’s brain flips off a switch and she stares emptily at America’s face. She can’t be blamed for it, there’s only so much a girl can take at once, and the idea of America on a Harley is…

It’s something, alright.

“Princess? Hey, Bishop,” America snaps her fingers in front of Kate’s eyes. “Wake up, let’s get moving.”

Recovering, Kate smirks at her. “Eager, are we?”

“Don’t ruin it,” America warns, but who can take her seriously when she looks so fond? She pushes Kate toward her discarded blouse. “Go get dressed.”

She then takes her skates to her locker and goes hunting for her shirt.

Because complying works for her here, Kate trots over to the sink where she left her discarded clothing without word, and when she reaches it, she catches sight of herself on the mirror.

The first thing she notices is that her bra’s open, when did that happen? The second is there’s no hiding what she was doing before. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair that she worked so hard to untangle is messed up again, her pupils are dilated to a level she hopes is normal so she won’t end the night at the hospital. But, with all that, she looks good, or so she thinks, and she feels good, which is what counts.

Besides, America might agree that she looks good, and isn’t that a lovely prospect?

Speaking of America, she’s coming back, shrugging on the shirt as she walks, and Kate hasn’t even put hers on yet. And, she decides on an impulse, she won’t. Instead, she makes a grab for America’s jacket, the white one she loves so much, and when America’s vision is unobstructed she puts it on over her bra and nothing else, and zips it up slowly, sultry, one inch at a time, looking at America from underneath her lashes.

America swallows dry.

Okay, that’s gratifying. Kate can get used to that.

This time she’s the one to take advantage of America’s dumbfounded state and kiss her, slipping happily into her arms. She tucks as most of the shirt as she can on one deep pocket. “Shall we?”

“I always park out back,” America tells her, and that explains why Kate’s never seen the bike before.

She stands on her tippy toes to put her face as close to America’s as possible, then grins wide. “Race ya.”

Then she takes off to the door, hearing America’s steps pound close behind her.

It’s not as fun as doing it on skates, but the advantage is, this time, regardless of who comes first – ha – they’re both winners.

*** 

The next morning, Kate wakes up with the sun on her face.

It’s… Early. Too early. The specifics aren’t important.

She squirms on the sheets, struggling for a position that will allow her to pretend she isn’t going through this and there’s still joy to be found in the world, but it’s too late. Now she’s up and the sun has not stopped shining right on her eyes – rude – and she can’t go back to sleep.

Apparently they forgot to close the curtains. _Greeeat_.

Why do these things happen to her? She’s such a good person, she throws all her trash in the correct bins and she’s never once not left enough of Eli’s food for him to eat. She deserves to sleep late after. Well.

After extremely extraneous, highly athletic activities, to put it mildly, and leave it at that.

 _For what it’s worth_ , she thinks, stretching till her back pops, grinning and self satisfied, _it put me in a great mood_.  

Sprawled beside Kate, lying almost diagonally, America isn’t having the same problem with the annoying ball of fire in the sky. She’s sleeping soundly, head burrowed on Kate’s pillow, one arm thrown over Kate.   

It’s a nice sight. If Kate’s forced to wake with the crack of dawn every day, this isn’t a bad compensation.

She slips out of the hold with care to not wake her company, but it’s not necessary. America keeps on sleeping through Kate’s moving like she’s doesn’t register it at all except for a minimal hitch in her breath.

Still, Kate’s a very considerate bedmate. She tip toes her way to the kitchen, bare feet padding silently on the carpet.

On the way – it’s not a long way. Three steps away from the bed would be more accurate – she stops to put on some clothes, and notices one of her skirts hanging from the ceiling fan.

 _Holy–,_ she thinks, but her brain reboots and she remembers she wasn’t wearing a skirt last night. That was the result of the last time she had to pick an outfit for an occasion at the drop of a hat. She doesn’t _know_ where her clothes from last night ended up.

Not that she cares. She wasn’t particularly fond of any of it; she can bear life without it. It’ll probably resurface during the next full-house cleaning.

Except for America’s jacket. That she would have liked to keep, but being real, she wouldn’t have been allowed to through any licit means, and you can’t miss what you never had, so it’s technically not her problem.

According to the clock over the stove, it’s not the crack of dawn, as she had imagined. It’s more like the crack of eight-thirtysomethings, but look, she’s twenty-one, okay? And it’s a– What– Saturday? It’s a Saturday after she went to bed late and she has none of her odd jobs planned for the day. Had there been any justice in the world she wouldn’t have been up for hours.

Breakfast. She needs food in her system, that ought to cheer her up.

Unfortunately, Kate doesn’t get things easy today, apparently, or at least this is the message she’s getting here, because there’s no food on any of the closets. Or, she has useless food. A pack of rice, a can of yeast, a bag of raisins she can’t remember buying and could belong to the previous residents so she doesn’t think she can trust it and the one gem of the collection, three boxes of orange juice left. No breakfast acceptable food.

And it’s not even that she couldn’t have afforded to stock up because she learned her lesson early on and always saves the money for food from every payment she receives; she just keep forgetting to go grocery shopping.

Awesome. She has to bang her head on the counter a few times to emphasize how awesome it is.

Hopefully she’ll do better next time.  

But for now, Kate sticks the straw in a juice box, resigned, thoughts of pancakes and bacon dancing before her eyes.

Rude awakening and dangerous malnutrition aside, it’s not a bad morning. The sun is warm and shining everywhere, not a cloud to be seen, but it’s not too hot that it’s unbearable. They can go for a walk and maybe have coffee, or spend the day at the beach. Whatever they feel like doing.

And no, Kate’s not shocked with how easily she slipped to thinking on ‘them’ terms. But she’s a little nervous about whether America feels the same.

As if Kate had summoned her, America’s arms are suddenly around her, and she’s flattening herself against Kate’s back. Kate hadn’t even noticed she’d woken up, or heard her approach. She guesses it was more the disappearance of the warm body next to her than any external factor that roused her, because America had seemed like a deep sleeper.

Warm lips find the spot behind Kate’s right ear. “G’morning.”

“Hmm, back at ya,” she turns around on her stool to throw her arms over America’s shoulders. “Sleep well?”

“You bet I did,” America tries to kiss her, but Kate stops it lifting a finger.

“Morning breath.”

America sniffs once and scrunches her nose. “Fair. What’re you eating?” She arches a brow when Kate shows her the box. “A juice box? Haven’t seen one since pre-k.”

Yeah, neither had Kate, till she started shopping for herself. But what could she do if it was cheaper than a bag of oranges to make the juice at home? It’s not her fault, it’s the faulty economy and a bad harvest year.

“I have more if you want one,” she offers. America nods, and Kate points her to the right cabinet, enjoying the view presented when America reaches for it.

She’s wearing clothes that belong to Kate, something she must have found hanging of a lamp or something of the sort from the explosion of Kate’s wardrobe. On Kate it’s a short-ish, loose dress, but on her it fits like a long shirt, and she’s not wearing anything else.

She can keep it for all Kate cares, as long as she always wears it like she’s doing right now.

“So,” America glances around as she takes the stool next to Kate, pulling her along. “Nice place you got here.”

“It is, isn’t it? Cozy,” Kate lets herself be cradled to a shoulder because she’s not known for wasting good opportunities. “Never thought I’d live in a trailer, but it’s not bad.”

She starts having her hair played with, and that’s officially too much for her. She drops her head on America’s lap, leaving her lower half supported by her stool. It’s a precarious position, but she trusts America can hold them, and the only thing she has to worry about is trying not to purr.

Not loudly, anyway.

“Why did you move in if you thought you weren’t going to like it?”

“Now, I didn’t say that,” Kate argues. “I said I’d never have pictured it, and I didn’t.”

Who does? Kate’s convinced trailers happen to people only when they’re not expecting it.

“I’m technically house-sitting. Trailer-sitting. The couple that owns it is traveling around the world.”

Sometimes she gets emails with photographs of famous monuments from the two old hippie ladies that hired her and liked her energy. They’re nice, never failing to make her smile. It’s nice to see that somewhere there are two nice people being deliriously happy in each other’s company.

America hums. “That’s explains the old people on all the portraits. I figured they were your family.”

Nah, she has no need to keep pictures of her family. If she misses their faces she can open to the gossip section of any New York paper and most country-wide ones. And she keeps her pictures in an album on a drawer, as well, or on her phone where she’ll see them constantly, except for the one of herself, her mother, and her sister, and the one with Cassie when they were still missing the front teeth of their smile. Those she’s too fond of to keep out of the wall.

“What’re you gonna do if they come back?”

Groaning, Kate hides her face on America’s stomach. Since when is eight in the morning an appropriate hour to think about things she has been so diligent at ignoring?

“Hey, no,” America pokes her, and when that doesn’t work, bounces her leg up and down, and Kate along with it. Like Kate’s not made of stronger stuff than that. “I’m curious. What’s your plan?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” Kate gives up. “Start squatting? Live off favor? Haven’t the faintest, to be honest, but I’m getting really good at not thinking about that. And it’s worked so far!”

Sort of. Technically, nothing worked at all so far, but Kate adapts fast to situations, even unfavorable ones. She turned it around. And refuses to think of the possibility that she might one day not be able to pull it off, because that’s her superpower.   

Versatilegirl. Ms. Chamaleon. The Rubber.

Yeah, it’s a crappy superpower.

But it got her this far.

“You’d be fine,” America declares with a confidence that is heartening to hear.

“You know what, this isn’t a conversation to have over breakfast,” Kate changes positions so her legs are on America’s lap instead of her body, as her back has started to hurt. “Even if there’s no breakfast.”

America concedes the point. “Okay. Why the sudden move?”

It takes a moment for Kate to think of a way to explain it.

“I think,” she tries. “That the city– New York. Did you know I’m from New York? I am. And the city was getting too _big_ for me.”    

She waves her hand, displeased.

“No, that’s not right. It’s more like. Like there were all these things and all these people – specially the people – and they made me be the one way when I didn’t want to.”

That sounds closer to the truth. See, it wasn’t just Kate’s family forcing moulds on her. It was her friends too, and the school people, and the reporters and people that only recognized her as the name Bishop and her dad’s money, and all the people Kate _was_ , during the years, all the behaviors and attitudes she grew out of and outlived, but that people kept expecting her to bring back to life because it would be more familiar to them than the current, arguably more mature version.

And Kate could never do that. She knows who she is, has always known, and she knew she couldn’t deliver what they asked, even if she had wanted to. But there were all these situations being forced on her where she was always expected to respond in one out of a handful of standard personalities, none of which was her anymore if they had ever been, and it was choking her down. The feeling of being a constant disappointment, of falling short even when you know the standards weren’t fair, is weary.

It wore her down, over the years. It didn’t leave her space to find out who the person she was so desperately trying to be loyal to _was._ She could no longer figure out who she was supposed to be when she was alone.

Kate Bishop was disappearing under the idea of Kate Bishop made by others.

“So I guess the city was getting too big. It was growing on me and I. Broke out. And ended up here.”

And figured out whom she wanted to be without interference and she’s never letting someone make her doubt it again, or force a different ideal on her, which she could have tried before but it wouldn’t have worked out. It’s so much easier to stand up for something if you know what are you fighting for.

To her credit, America listens to every word, and considers it seriously before replying.

“I think I understand,” she finally says. “I felt something sort of like that when I moved, too.”

“The place was dwarfing you?”

“More like _I_ was getting too big for _it_ ,” she gives Kate the smallest smile. “But I’m from a small community.”

Smiling back, Kate lays her head back on America’s shoulder. “For the record, it’s not a bad place to land.”

And getting better.

The silence lasts for a good minute, then it breaks, as it’s wont to. America laughs first, shaking Kate with it.

“Not a subject for breakfast either, is it?”

“Not really. Oh, I know!” She jumps from her stool. “We’ll go eat. I know a place with the most _amazing_ chocolate croissants.”

America’s attention was hers at the word ‘eat’, but the last two win her completely. They can both hear her stomach growl.

She gives America critical look, finger to her chin. “You should put on clothes, though. That is,” she grins. “You _could._ It’s more of a polite suggestion. I heard it’s more socially acceptable, but who cares?”

Not Kate.

That doesn’t get America up. Rather, she lounges on her stool, looking back at Kate with something on her eyes, on the tilt of her smile, that suggests they’re not leaving the house for a long time yet.

“I’ll get dressed,” she compromises, not in any hurry to get up. “Wanna help me?”

As per usual, Kate turns out to be right.

Their plans don’t come through without a significant delay.

*** 

Cassie and David stare at Kate.

Kate stares back.

They are once more at the dinner.

And it has been a while.

They’re not judging, and truth be told, they aren’t even surprised. They’re just caught off guard.

“Then you… Got together?” David checks. Again. “Just like that?”

He snaps his fingers to express the suddenness of it all.

“Yep, that’s the idea,” Kate affirms. “Why, should it have been hard?”

Cassie shakes her head. “No, not at all. We thought you’d have done it sooner, even.” Yeah, they had been quite obvious with their intentions. “But one moment you’re going to practice, the next you’re dating… Guess I thought there’d be more of a bang.”

“I don’t know about dating,” Kate points out. “We got together, we didn’t discuss labels.”

“Oh,” Cassie blinks. “Okay. Maybe there’ll be a bang later.”

“Why are you so fixated on a bang?”

She runs an exasperated hand through her hair. “You’re both the bang type of people.”

David nods like that makes a lot of sense. Kate doesn’t even know what they’re talking about anymore. 

That’s when America walks through the door. They had agreed to meet here, so she’s not unexpected, but the way she greets the two, gives Kate a look, and goes to the bathroom.

Kate waits twenty-six long seconds before getting up. “S’cuse me, I have to go powder my nose.”

One of them snorts loudly, but Kate doesn’t look back to find out who.

***

“Hey, America?” She calls, hours later, after the bathroom and the dinner and most of the day. “Are we dating?”

“No, are you kidding?” She hears, muffled, as America’s mouth is still on her hipbone.”I do this with all my casual friends.”

*** 

 _we’re dating,_ she texts Cassie when America is asleep and she has her hands free.

 _no bang, huh,_ the reply comes right away.

 _i had several,_ she types.

Cassie sends her a picture of her unimpressed expression.

*** 

“This isn’t– You’re not being fair. I _like_ watching things explode,” Kate tells America, in line for their popcorn. “It keeps the movie going.”

“If it doesn’t make sense, what’s the point?” America debates, moving over a spot. “If there’s no reason for an action sequence to happen, it shouldn’t. It’s not realistic.”

Kate waves her hands, frustrated. “That’s the point!”

They’re having a little trouble with their movie selection, as America likes subtlety and world building and all that deep crap, and Kate likes gun fights and being able to take a nap and not missing anything important.

On occasion, both things coexist in one movie. Most times, they have to flip a coin to decide what they’re watching, and they end up like this, angrily gesticulating at each other in public. Usually Kate’s fine with that, but she lost, so she’s not backing down.

Not that she ever does.

“One large popcorn,” Kate tells the girl behind the cashier when it’s their turn.

“Salt or butter?”

“Salt,” Kate replies, at the same time America says ‘butter’.

They glance at each other.

Kate starts searching her pockets for a coin they didn’t spend on the tickets.

***

Meanwhile, the derby goes on.

The Rolling Thunderers eliminate the Speed Queens for good, then get taken out by the Jaguars. The Patriots steadily climb the ladder to the finals, and the Shooters are one match away from meeting them there.

And it won’t be an easy one; the Jaguars are out for blood.

They kick up the training session to twice more a week.

During one of those extra meets, Tania stills Kate from fixing her skates.

“Is this an invasion?” She asks, gesturing to the bleachers where America’s comfortably sprawled, sharing an earplug with Eli, who seems mighty constipated to be there, but that’s his standard resting face for finals season and Kate knows it’s automatic. “A spy situation? I appreciate the vote of confidence on us winning, but still.”

Kate socks the top of her helmet. “Don’t be an ass, you know her. Do you think she’d do that sort of thing?”

Tania blows the bangs from her eyes. “I was mostly kidding,” she says, defensively. Then she shrugs. “But what else could she be doing here?”

Casually, Kate fastens her elbow braces. “She’s here to see me.”

“But why would she be here t– _Oh_ ,” the light bulb goes on above her head. “Oh, Bishop you sly son of a mother, I’m so proud of you!”

God, why hasn’t Kate known these people her entire life?

“Me too,” she jumps up, all settled. “Now let’s go impress her so much her whole team feels intimidated.”

An honorable goal, but it’s truly code for ‘let’s give Kate a chance to show off in front of her girlfriend’.

And if the first one fails, the second goes without a hitch.

*** 

Pretty much everyone they know is happy about the relationship, and over the following days, Kate hears a constant repetition of ‘you look so cute together!’ and ‘we should double date!’ and once ‘the power couple of the year’ which was said with extreme sarcasm but just see if Kate’s paying that any mind.

It’s very nice, if you ask Kate, but she never learned how to be bored by people saying nice things about her, so she’s a little suspect.

But they do deserve it, let’s be real. They are such a good couple, and Kate isn’t just saying that – they _are_. They work together, they work for each _other_. They’re good together.

They complement each other’s fault. They argue continuously because they’re stubborn, but they’re not good at keeping resentments so it doesn’t matter. They make each other laugh.

They _work_.

And it’s good. It’s so good, Kate knows karma is bullshit because she tries to be a good person but she’s never done something so good to earn this, unless there’s such a thing as past lives and she’s reaping the rewards of the incarnation where she was a damned saint, because that’s the only way.

She’s never– She never pictured she would find what she has now. She wasn’t even a wildly romantic child; she never thought good things could just _happen_. She believed they only came through hard work and not a little sacrifice. But this? This is easy. America makes it easy, and fun, and never more than Kate can take at once.

America is, surprisingly, the less guarded one with her emotions. Once she decides to go for it, she’s all in, and yet, she never makes Kate feel bad for the reservations she can’t let go of. She respects them because she respects Kate, and isn’t that the most important thing? The mutual respect?

If it’s not, it should be. Kate’s willing to advocate for that. 

There’s nothing about this that Kate shouldn’t be proud about, and she didn’t claim to be for the sake of doing it. She is, although she didn’t do a single thing to be proud about except get very lucky.

But take ‘em where you can get ‘em, she figures.

Pretty much the only people not bursting with joy or at least mildly happy about their relationship are America’s team. And not the whole team; just the two most diehard competitive leaders, and they’re more concerned about it affecting America’s ability as a jammer to throw Kate off the track if it comes down to it.

They clearly don’t know America very well.

Kate does, though, so when they corner her one day, whispering and agitated and pointing Kate’s way, she can see how exponentially little she cares.

It’s fine if they can’t see it – America is good with making her feelings plain.

Even if they still don’t like it, they can’t exactly do anything about it. Kate’s known them long enough to doubt they would – all that matters is what happens on the tracks, not out – but should they feel the wish to, they can’t afford to alienate America. She’s their star, this year, the revelation of the season.

She’s going to be poster girl, that’s common place information. Unofficial, but they all know it’ll happen. Kate was poster girl her first year too, and again the year before last. She has both of them at home, and in case they are ever damaged, all her friends got copies too.

Hopefully, it won’t be weird if she gets this year’s too. If it is, she can get Teddy to buy her a copy in secret. But she’s not passing the opportunity.

The Patriots’ uniform happens to look stunning on America.  

*** 

The final body count is like this:

Jaguars – two skates cracked, three girls with bruised ribs, a possibly twisted ankle.

Shooters – two girls who had to sit time out, an elbow brace lost, one temporarily immobilized leg, several medically approved prescriptions for pain meds and a busted lip.

Besides that, posters ripped and signs torn, insults shouted from both sides, clothes with stitches pulled and a yelling match between fans.

The conclusion: the Shooters are going to the final.

It’s worth it, even if Kate can’t kiss America until her lip stops swelling.   

*** 

America, who she’s going to meet at finals.

Huh. She hadn’t stopped to think of that.

***

And they’re both jammers too.

*** 

Well, they’ll work it out before the game, have a conversation.

*** 

They don’t.

But America grabs her on a kiss right before they go to the lockers – separated since it’s a game, not practice – and Kate guesses they’ll be fine.

***

Locker room on practices is like the communal bathroom of a camping trip.

The same place during a game is like a fortress before battle.

They put the purple one-pieces, that were new when the season started and now look beaten and mistreated, all customized by each player: Carmen’s was cut on the legs to form shorts, Kate’s doesn’t have fabric over the hipbones. That’s meant to be something about individualism or some crap, but Kate suspects they do it so there’ll be no fights over what uniforms are whose.

Makeup is applied by those who enjoy it like war paint, several girls cramming in front of one mirror to liberally apply mascara, the same eyeliner going from hand to hand.

But the most obviously changed feature is the chatter. What is light and cut by laughter normally now is aggressive and serious. Loud it always is, but the difference is substantial.

When they are all set to leave, Astrid calls them in a circle.

“Time for Carmen’s speech!”

Carmen is currently the youngest player of the team, so she has to make a speech before every final. They’ve been doing that since before Kate joined, and the previous girl was only too happy to let the mantle go.

“I hate this dumbass tradition,” she starts, as she has launched all her speeches since she had to take them up. They cheer enthusiastically, as they have since the first time she used it. “But fine. We’ve been through finals before, and we’ve been through finals with the Patriots before. And they’re good,” Kate thinks of America. “But so are we. So. Be better.”

“You’re an inspiration,” Kate calls. Carmen smiles.

“Bite me. All right, Shooters, go get ‘em!”

And they go.

***

“Is this the part where we have to be nice to each other because we’re involved?” Kate asks, rolling to a stop beside America for their first jam.

“Sure, why not?” She shrugs. “I promise to take care of you after I kick your ass out here.”

“Aw,” Kate replies. She’s so happy they’re not nice.

When the whistle comes, they shoot toward the pack, shoving each other as viciously as they ever have before. It’s beautiful. 

*** 

Kate maybe shouldn’t think of the match as foreplay.

*** 

She gives up trying not to before the third jam.

*** 

The Patriots aren’t playing for fun here; they’re coming after them with everything they got.

The Shooters are fighting back, with speed and carefully trained moves they’ve rehearsed millions of times.

And neither of them is making headway.

By the time they get to their last jam, the score is such a classic it hurts to looks at.

They’re tied.

The fans are getting nervous, shouting from the bleachers. It’s stressful for them, watching a game so evenly matched. It’s eight billion times more for the girls on the skates, Kate can assure them that, but no one asks her.

On a personal level, there’s an interesting phenomenon involving Kate and America, and it’s not, as was feared, because of them. It’s simply that their friends couldn’t choose between them one person to cheer, so they stand on their privileged seats and shout for whomever seems to be doing worse at the time. 

It’s so completely endearing, Kate’s heart swells three times its size. She’s not even going to steal Eli’s food after the game, just for that.

She and America don’t talk this time, as they get into position for the jam. No one is thinking much beside the immediate challenge of the game, and they are no different, too much on their own headspace to pay attention to anything but the track.

The right whistle is loud on Kate’s ear, and America tries to take her down immediately, going for her strengths, but Kate’s ready for that, and she takes as much speed as she can, sliding to the front. The Patriots keep close together, though, and her progress is interrupted, giving America space to get ahead.

She tries to catch up, tries to go for the whip, but the team still holds her back, and only when she gets assistance from her teammates can she cross the pack again, now much behind America.

All the odds are against her, but she bends low and rolls hard, doing her best to catch up.

It’s not enough. America wins the Patriots the jam.

And they’re out of time, so she wins them the game too.

The cheering fills the place, people screaming and waving signs, chanting America’s moniker at the top of her lungs. The Patriots are cheering too, congratulating each other, running the track again, and they’ll be on America soon, so Kate takes the advantage to get to her first.

America smiles at her, and even though Kate feels terrible she lost, she also feels great America won, if that’s possible. She’s glad to see her this happy, and after all, she deserved it.

Kate did too, of course, but that’s not the point.

Grabbing America’s hand and lifting it like a boxing champion, Kate gets the volume up even louder. She rolls along for a moment, then prepares to leave bow down graciously and go back to her team to lick her wounds, because she’s a _sore_ loser, not a _bad_ one.

She can’t, however. She can’t, because America pulls her close by the hand she’s still holding, and kisses her right there, in front of everyone, not caring for the celebration she should be enjoying.

The crowd goes wild on Kate’s ears, but they soon disappear completely, as there’s not much else she’s capable of focusing on when America’s kissing her like that, like it’s the only thing she ever wants to be doing. Kate responds enthusiastically, and with the minimal part of her brain still capable of rational thought, she wonders if Cassie’s happy now.

That’s about as big a bang as it gets.

**Author's Note:**

> The tumblr mirror for this fic is [ here](http://tamirthegreat.tumblr.com/post/97818928191/the-infamous-roller-derby-fic=%22)


End file.
